


Measure of a Man

by GenerallyHuxurious (GallifreyanOmnishambles)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Anxiety, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Awkwardness, Burberry Au, Eye Trauma, For Techie, Guilt, Letters, M/M, Major Character Injury, Military Uniforms, Miscommunication, Nervousness, Period Typical Attitudes, Recruitment, Repression, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soldiers, Survivor Guilt, Tailoring, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 02:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10151111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyanOmnishambles/pseuds/GenerallyHuxurious
Summary: Lieutenant Dopheld Mitaka intends to treat himself before he joins his battalion on the Western Front. Armitage Hux just happens to make the best British Army approved trench coats in London, and he also happens to be very good looking, for a man who looks so sad all the time. Who can blame Mitaka for being smitten at first sight?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doremi391](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doremi391/gifts).



If anyone who knew him was ever asked to describe Dopheld Mitaka, the word they would probably use was ‘conscientious’. It was the one trait he'd seen noted on every assessment he'd ever undertaken, from prep school and Eton to his current position as a junior officer in the British Army. A useful skill- preparation, research, punctuality- it all fed into his seemingly predestined role as secretary to a man of power. There was no chance of his ever becoming such a man himself, but perhaps now that he was in the Army he might rise to the level of adjutant. He could dream.

The sad secret of his success was that it was fueled by anxiety. For Dopheld the very thought of not being adequately informed in any given situation drove him to lengths that were, at times, a little embarrassing.

Such as right now. 

Following the recent death of his father he had found himself in possession of rather more money than he'd ever expected. The man had raised him as close to poverty as any titled family could without risking their social standing, and so Dopheld had expected to inherit little more than debts and a crumbling pile in the country. Instead the old man's lawyers revealed a hoarded wealth that Dopheld had never have even fantasized about in all his days.

But he was conscientious. The money was prudently invested, the house and lands sold off- his financial future if he should return from the war was secure. That was not the source of his current toe-curling embarrassment.

No, the subject making his palms sweat now as he paced through the busy streets of London was luxury. He had never had it, though he had seen plenty of it. The boys in the better dorms with their silk pyjamas and hidden boxes of treats. The officers who always had a box of cigars on hand or the best hair pomade. He didn't entirely understand what it was the made him twitch at the thought of possessing even the smallest item that was not strictly utilitarian, but today he had planned to do something about it.

He intended to treat himself. Of course, as a conscientious officer of a nation at war he couldn't even begin to justify an entirely frivolous purchase, but he was an officer and he had heard such good things about the optional addition to the uniform that was allowed to men of his rank. 

Officers of the British Army had a choice between wearing just the old style ‘British Warm’ woolen greatcoat, and adding the newer specially engineered gabardine ‘trench’ coat. Lightweight, tough and waterproof, the trench coat really was the obvious choice for a war being conducted in the muddy fields of France. And it would be his first tailored item in two and a half decades of life. The first truly  _ new _ item he’d ever owned that wasn’t a standard issue uniform. 

As with any other new experience Dopheld had done all he could to research the process from initial fitting through to collection - what clothes to wear, how much time to allow, four different routes to and from the tailor’s shop that would account for both the weather and the traffic. It would not do to be late but for that matter arriving too early was also had the potential for humiliation. What if he were to be seen by a superior officer, or a former classmate? What if it became known that Dopheld Mitaka couldn’t complete a task so simple as purchasing clothes without looking the fool?

It wasn’t rational, no one in the world knew that as much as he did, but he had time to complete the task as he preferred and so there was no need to risk an attack of nerves. Once he was in France- once the war was truly all around him- he would need to adapt, but for now…

So he’d deliberately walked by the tailor’s shop a day earlys with the intention of assessing the layout - the correct door to use, whether there was an assistant waiting or a bell to ring, stairs, obstacles, all the things his mind would fret about if he didn’t know about them in advance. 

He’d almost fallen from the curb into the path of cab when he’d looked toward the shop and seen  _ him _ . 

Dopheld wasn’t sure if the redheaded man was one of the sons in ‘Hux & Sons’ or simply an assistant or clerk. Certainly he wasn’t old enough to be proprietor, though Dopheld couldn’t guess exactly how old he might be. 

His hair wasn’t merely red- under the warm lamps of the shop it shone a brilliant rose gold while his lashes and the fine dusting of stubble on cheeks glittered like powder citrine. Combined with his tall narrow frame it gave him an ethereal air that reminded Dopheld of the faeries he’d once imagined to be hiding in the copses beyond his father’s land. 

The speed of his infatuation came as a shock that left Dopheld feeling almost dizzy. He had only seen the man for a minute, possibly two, as he strode back and forth at the shop windows tugging his hair and biting his lips in some kind of anxious frustration. The impression he had made in that short time was so complete that he might even call it life changing. It had certainly stayed with him for the rest of the day and into a very restless night.

Dopheld had made his peace with his own predilections during his time at Cambridge. He preferred the company of men to the point of feeling revulsion at female advances, so he had long since accepted a future of clandestine affairs and bachelorhood. The money had complicated things but there was literally no family left to push him into a loveless marriage. 

But in all those years of secret meetings and stolen kisses Dopheld had never found his dreams haunted by the vision of a man he hadn’t even spoken to, and yet he had barely slept for thinking of those full lips and long delicate hands. 

He was so discomfited that he had almost changed his plans- delayed his visit, or gone to some other tailor entirely- but the anxiety surrounding the act of missing an appointment was in itself far more stressful that the lust lingering in his veins. Or so he had thought until this moment. 

Now that he was standing on the pavement in front of the shop, he found that he could not move. He was half trembling with fear at the thought of climbing the steps and finally addressing the man he spent the last twelve hours reluctantly fantasizing about, while all too physical parts of his body were focusing on the process of actually being touched by those slender fingers. The small portion of his brain still capable of rational thought wonder how one knew if they were experiencing a heart attack.

“Are you coming in, Lieutenant, or do you intend to spend the entire day blocking my door?”

That was probably what a heart attack felt like. Or possibly it had been the process of his soul physically separating from his body. 

He looked up to find the source of the clipped and irritated voice, expecting to see the older proprietor of the shop and found himself looking at the redhead instead. Oh how he wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. 

The face in front of him made no sense. Soft blue-green eyes, soft copper hair, soft lips, a soft rounded jaw- it should not have been able to convey such a degree of misanthropic irritation. Up close in the harsh light of day the man had a pallor to his skin that spoke more of ill health from overwork than faery magic.

“Can you hear me, Lieutenant?”

“Oh, yes, sorry, how did you know my rank?”

The redhead recoiled with a sneer. “You  _ are _ wearing your uniform, you know.”

This was not going well. At all. Dopheld wished he could turn and flee, but now the man had noticed his uniform he would be dishonouring it by running. Things were not proceeding as he had hoped, but wasn’t that just the way the world would be once he was truly out in it? All his life he’d been one controlled environment or another, it was time to step away from that. 

“Forgive me, I am rather new to the Army.”

“Hmm,” The man hummed with a moue of distaste. “Well, new Lieutenant, the question still stands- are you coming in?” He stepped aside with a wave of his hand and Dopheld darted up the steps to enter the shop. 

It was only when he drew level with the man that he realised there was almost half a foot of difference between their heights, and not in the way he had expected from the delicacy of the tailor’s limbs. Abruptly he was seized by a feeling of ungainliness to be towered over by the unusually slyth like giant. 

“You’re here to be measured for an Army standard gabardine trench coat, yes?” The tailor asked with a glance at the papers strewn across what might have been desk at the rear of the shop. He gave Dopheld an assessing look. From the twist of his lips he found him wanting. “And you can afford this yourself? I’ve received no payment in advance from a family member- that’s how these things are usually ordered for fresh recruits.”

“Oh, oh yes, of course,” Dopheld stammered, digging through his pockets for the crumpled pound notes he wasn’t yet used to carrying. “I have no family but I can certainly pay myself.”

He might as well have offered up a dead bird for all the happiness the money elicited. 

“And is that your life savings? I sharn’t be robbing the soon-to-die of their last few pennies for the sake of lining my own pockets.” 

The words turned his stomach to lead. He knew what he was doing, he had chosen to volunteer for the officer corp of his own free will- but to hear his profession referred to in such terms… it was horrifying. How dare this man…

Dopheld drew himself up to his full, insufficient height, intending to berate him when the tailor looked up from the proffered money with a fleeting look of such sorrow that Dopheld’s lungs seized in his chest. 

“No, Sir,” He said with a careful gentleness he didn’t entirely feel, “I assure you I am not impoverished. My father was a member of the House of Lords and an unexpectedly wealthy man. The purchase of this item presents no hardship to me.”

The tailor nodded thoughtfully. “In that case we have developed an entire kit of additional clothing in the hope of aiding the men of the trenches. The coat of course but with improved boots, gabardine covers to keep your breeches dry, waterproof hat cover with cape, and gabardine gloves. £6 6s. in our highest quality fabric.”

Dopheld felt his fingers close around the notes as a lifetime of thriftiness objected to the cost. “I am only a Lieutenant, surely…”

“They are approved within the regulations, if your commanding officers do not have them that is simply a consequence of their own foolishness.” The tailor paused. Dopheld hadn’t noticed him moving but he suddenly stood far closer than he had been. Quite a large percentage of Dopheld’s brain shut down. “Trust me, if you do not buy them now you’ll regret the lack of them. Of course, you can make orders by post later, but as one might guess the postal service in Flanders can hardly be called ‘reliable’.” 

He had no idea what to say. None at all. Six pounds was more than he’d spent on clothes in all his life. Despite his more than comfortable situation he struggled to justify the purchase to himself. 

The tailor took pity on him, though his sour expression suggested that it was not a familiar practice. “Why don’t I take your measurements while you decide?”

Dopheld nodded as if he genuinely expected his brain to function during the measuring process. It managed approximately two more thoughts before shutting down completely when the man knelt to take his inside leg measurement. Those thoughts were the man’s hands were far colder than the climate of the shop suggested, and his face was even more beautiful when viewed from above. There was another partial thought concerning plump lips and a moist tongue, but Dopheld drowned it before it could be completed. His embarrassment was already sufficient without the threat of inappropriate autonomic reactions.

* * *

He’d left the shop in something of a daze, having been reminded that his coat could easily be completed in two days but if he wanted the rest it would need at least four days lead time. He had a week before he sailed for France.

It was ridiculous that he was hesitating over so small a price given his wealth, but he’d never really put his own interests ahead in anything. And contemplating the likely conditions at the Front did not help. Dopheld could easily see himself giving the thing to the first man who looked too cold. 

He had dined at his father’s old club, feeling out of place but determined to make use of the membership he’d inherited, then he’d wandered the streets of London in an effort to clear his head. It hadn’t helped all that much.

His mind keep drifting back to the tailor. The man had swung between rude and coldly protective with an undercurrent of misery that Dopheld wished he could wipe away. A face like that, all soft lines and golden light shouldn’t be twisted by such sadness. It should smile, it should flush with pleasure, it should have kiss bruised lips and eyes filled with joy, it…

A passerby swore at him as he stopped dead on the pavement, his fists pressing into his thighs in frustration. He should not be thinking like that. Not about a total stranger. The man might be married or engaged, certainly there was no shortage of women with so many men away at war.

He  _ would _ still think about him though, he knew couldn’t resist. Once he was back in the tiny room in his lodging house he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about about the gentle press of fingers across his back or the palms smoothing his uniform tunic at the waist. Not to mention the lingering touches around his thighs and hips where the man’s hands had been so cold that they’d been a shock even through the wool of his uniform. But that was a train of thought he would have to fight to derail tonight. When he was alone. Not here, not in public.

Through the buffeting crowds the lights of a music hall suddenly drew his distracted eye. He’d always loved to sing along with the audience on the rare occasions he could afford the entry fee back in Cambridge. Yes, that would be the perfect diversion from his inappropriate thoughts. 

As he eased his way between the passersby his unease grew but for a different reason. The music hall was holding a charitable performance and the pavement in front of the building was lined with respectable looking women holding white feathers. 

He could hear the singing coming from inside now.  _ “We don't want to lose you but we think you ought to go, for your King and Country both need you so. We shall want you and miss you but with all our might and main. We shall cheer you, thank you, kiss you when you come back again.” _

He faltered as one woman darted forward to press a feather into a young man’s hand. “Shame on you.”

Oh he had never approved of that. The war effort needed soldiers but not like this, not judging strangers in the street . 

“Look at this fine young man, ready to serve his country!” Hands closed around his arms and he felt himself shiver at the thought of being used solely because he was in uniform. “He’s ready and willing to give it all to save us from the Hun! What about you two fine boys with your disreputable hair?! Are you going to fight?!”

Dopheld looked up, horrified to meet the incensed eyes of the tailor he’d so recently be dreaming about. 

“Stop it!” He snapped, stepping away from the grabbing women. The change in position revealed a second redhead clinging to the tailor’s arm. 

Tall but stooped, he was somehow even thinner than his companion. Despite his nearly tailored clothing he’d allowed his hair to grow out so that it hung in greasy strands in front of his eyes.

“Don’t you agree that these cowards should join up like you?” One of the women pressed him. 

The tailor looked like he was about to make an angry retort when the other man straightened slightly. A shake of his head rearranged his hair so that one eye was exposed. The iris was a pitted cloudy blue while the sclera was stained red. 

“Was losing my sight to the German gas not enough for the King?” The man whispered with lungs that crackled like dry leaves.

The tailor sneered at the crowd and pulled his companion gently away. Dopheld watched them go with a sick feeling rising in his throat.

* * *

Further wandering around London didn't help the fact that he felt terrible.

No wonder that tailor was so unhappy. Dopheld was sure the man with the ruined eyes was the tailor's brother. It must hurt him awfully to be actively working toward the war effort... or perhaps he was doing all he could to help. He had said he'd developed the kit specifically to aid the soldiers at the front.

Either way Dopheld knew he should invest in the kit, to boost the man's income and perhaps encourage others to order it. Yes, he would do that in the morning and then he would be sure not to intrude on his grief any further. 

It was wrong to be harbouring lascivious thoughts for a man in such pain. 

His mind made up he slipped into the lounge bar of a relatively respectable looking pub and almost immediately had to fend off two or three offered drinks. It seemed that soldiers were just as popular here as they had been at the music hall, but without the pressure to shame others into enlisting, perhaps because there were a number of wounded men seated amongst the crowd.

He raised his glass to them as he searched for a quiet corner. He should probably take the time to speak to them, but he needed to regroup a little first.

“If I didn't know better I'd think you were following me.”

Dopheld narrowly missed sloshing stout onto his uniform. 

The tailor was sitting in the darkest part of the corner, watching him warily over the rim of his glass. 

“I promise you I’m not.” Dopheld squeaked. “And I wasn't with those women earlier either, they accosted me just…”

“Don't worry about it, it happens.” The man placed his glass carefully onto the table and pushed it away slightly. It looked like the gesture of a man trying to keep his temper in check. “People see us- I’m healthy and he has all his limbs- and they assume we're slacking.”

“But you're contributing to the war effort!” Dopheld said, suddenly offended on his behalf. “Without you we’d have no officers fit for duty.”

“It isn't enough.” The man shrugged and stared at his hands, tracing the path of callouses with a fingernail. “All the enlisted men, the rank and file, they don't get the benefit. I’ve been petitioning the War Office to let me manufacture a large scale replacement for the current uniform but so far- nothing.”

Watching the broken looking man in front of him Dopheld felt his chest tighten. He wanted nothing more than to put a comforting hand on his shoulder or knee but he didn't dare in public. 

“Do you have the resources for that? Your shop is so…” He sort for a word that would not offend.

“Small?” The corners of the tailor's mouth lifted. “Like you I recently inherited more than it seems from my father. The shop you visited is only for my bespoke clients, it's a… quieter refuge from running the factory.”

“Ah. My condolences.” Dopheld said quietly. “For both your father and your… brother?”

The tailor looked across the room to a table of wounded men talking with their heads close together across the glasses. The long red hair of his companion was just visible amongst the group. “He should never have gone to the war.”

“I’m so sorry that he was injured…”

“No I meant to say- he should not have been able to go. He was 17. When father found Declan missing he went into a decline. Then when he was sent back injured from St Julien... the shock of Declan’s condition caused the heart attack that killed him. So ‘Hux & Sons’ became just ‘Armitage Hux & Co”. But there is prestige in the old name so I shan't change it, even if the ‘& Sons’ is unlikely to ever apply again.”

Dopheld looked up, the automatic social platitudes already forming on his lips- ‘you're still young’, ‘you'll find the right girl’, ‘don't give up’. They slipped away unsaid when he met Armitage’s eye. The tailor's slightly bony knee pressed firmly into his own.

Oh. That was a hint. 

Suddenly he found he couldn't hear anything over the rushing of his own blood in his ears.

“I don't know, I think ‘Armitage’ has a prestigious ring to it.” He said quietly.

“It's awful.”

“It's not Dopheld though. That sounds like saying Donald with a cold.”

For the first time since they’d met Armitage actually smiled- properly with shining teeth and lightly crinkled eyes. The expression completely transformed his face. Dopheld would do anything to see it again. 

When Armitage reached for his glass his hands were trembling almost imperceptibly. 

Glancing around the lounge bar Dopheld noticed a small discreet sign advertising the availability of the snug- the small private area at the rear of the bar- and the possibility of hot food being served there. 

“Have you eaten?”

“Of course… no wait… I…” Armitage faltered. “I don't actually remember.” 

Dopheld bit his lip and let his hand rest lightly on the tailor’s thigh. It was a little distressing how much of the limb his hand managed to cover. 

“Would your brother be alright if we sat in the snug for a while?” He asked, tipping his head towards the bar. “I'll buy you supper.”

Another smile, slightly faded this time with the memory of why he was now his brother's keeper. “They know us here, they'll come and tell me when he's ready to leave.”

It felt almost illicit to follow this waifish man first to the bar and then to the private seating area. There wasn't any possibility of really  _ doing _ anything there- the space around each table was made private by frosted glass set into tall wooden dividers but their outlines could still be seen from outside. Besides, Dopheld was almost as reluctant to act on his attraction now that it might be welcomed as he had been to fantasise about the man. But the opportunity to be so much closer to him, to have his full attention, it was as thrilling now as those university nights when he'd slipped away for far more carnal activities. 

The food was simple- meat pie, boiled potatoes, and a selection of barely recognisable vegetables- but it was hot and filling, and likely the first full meal Armitage had eaten in several days. They spoke little as they ate, content to concentrate on their plates while their legs unconsciously tangled together under the table. 

Both men would have been satisfied with just the food on their plates but the landlord returned with a covered bowl, saying earnestly- “my wife wanted to make sure you were properly compensated for your bravery, lad, so here's one of her famous duffs, compliments of the house.”

The thing in the bowl was vaguely spherical and vaguely beige, but steaming steaming hot and covered in custard. There were no extra bowls and only one spoon. 

Armitage raised an eyebrow. “Well, it certainly  _ is  _ ‘duff’.”

Dopheld giggled. “Any indications of the flavour?”

Grinning slightly the redhead leant forward and sniffed dramatically. “Sawdust?”

He shifted to one side of his bench and indicated that Dopheld should join him. 

“Hmm, perhaps cement? That was a regular dessert option at prep.” Dopheld suggested quietly as he slipped into the seat.

The bench was more than wide enough for both of them, but Armitage hadn't moved far, which of course meant sitting pressed thigh to thigh. Dopheld’s smile widened when he realised.

“I’m sure it would be treason to poison an officer of the King's Army so I suppose I should make the first foray into unknown territories.” Privacy seemed to have loosened something in Armitage- perhaps this was who he had been before the war.

“I thank you for your sacrifice.” 

If he were honest Dopheld wouldn't have minded this kind of food- it was the thrifty bland fare of his childhood after all- but the delighted melodrama of the tailor's reaction warmed him more than the dessert might have done. 

Turning slightly to watch the progress of the spoon towards Armitage’s lips he found that the small room was growing warmer by the moment. 

Plush lips closed hesitantly around a morsel of crumbly suet concoction before his tongue chased away the sauce. The was a pause broken only by the sound of chewing and a series of odd expressions flitting across the refined face. 

“Well? Was I right? Or were you?”

“It's plum. Plum... and potato.”

Their eyes met. Dopheld held his breath but the giggling broke through again.

“It's not actually that bad,” Armitage said before licking the spoon. 

Dopheld made a choking sound that became all the louder when he realised that the other man was holding out another portion toward him. 

“Try?”

A knock at the door shattered the atmosphere. Hux instantly slid to the far end of the bench, the sudden gap between them leaving Dopheld disproportionately chill where their thighs had met.. 

“Sorry lads, just realised I hadn't given you two bowls! I brought you another round through too.” The landlord said blithely, completely unaware of the scene he'd interrupted.

He was gone again in an instant but the free and easy atmosphere went with him. The space might be closed off but it was still public in a way. There was no true privacy here.

They talked quietly as they ate the questionable dessert. The conversation ranged from Dopheld's schooling and a shared love of poetry to the blinding of the younger brother at St Julien and Dopheld’s own altruistic choice to join the officer corp. Dopheld awkwardly touched on his unease at the prospect of wealth while Armitage spoke of his interest not just in clothing design but also fabric production. His mind never seemed to rest. Instead it churned out an endless stream of innovations he would love to develop if he only had the time.

He had been talking about the possibility of creating a fabric to stop bullets when a muted tapping announced the arrival of his brother. An hour had passed so quickly but there was still twelve inches of space between them on the bench. 

Dopheld watched them leave with tears of frustration half threatening to form in his eyes.

* * *

The morning greeted him with warm gold sunshine and a hot cup of tea delivered by the maid. Dopheld might be an anxious young man with odd nervous tendencies, but he wasn’t given to melancholy.

A good night’s sleep and some truly wonderful dreams had melted away his frustration at the loss of progress with Armitage. He hadn’t even known him for twenty four hours, but the man had already made a clear declaration of interest. That had to count for something. 

He had a week left at leisure in the capital before he left for the unknown fields of France. He would make those days count. But for now he’d snuggle down under the blankets, enjoy his tea and imagine that the golden orange sunbeam falling on the other pillow was the glow of Armitage’s hair.

* * *

“Ah, Lieutenant! I wasn’t intending to open the shop today, it’s lucky you caught me collecting some paperwork.” Armitage gave him that odd uncertain grimace again, but still stepped aside quickly to let him through the doorway. The room was dark and eerily quiet with all the blinds drawn. It seem like an unnatural state for a tailor’s workshop.

“I wanted to place the order for the whole kit as soon as possible,” Dopheld began a little hesitantly. He could feel the sweat beading on his back at the thought of the ruse he was going to attempt. It was an inconsequential thing but his brain seemed determined to treat it like a bank robbery. “And I uh, I’m afraid I misunderstood the shopkeeper’s accent this morning, and ended up with half a dozen buns for breakfast instead of just one. I thought that you might… like to help me with them?”

Armitage gave the offered paper bag a knowing look but reached inside nonetheless. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you. And thank you for dinner last night.”

“It was my pleasure.” Dopheld said with rather more enthusiasm than was perhaps decent.

He flushed in embarrassment, but Armitage touched his hand for a moment and gave him one of those genuine smiles that seemed to transform his face. Perhaps it was worth it.

They ate quietly, Dopheld seated in the only chair while Armitage stood leaning against the messy desk, their legs once again tangled at the knee though neither commented on the phenomenon. It was a wonderful start to the day.

Sadly Armitage had a meeting to attend which cut their meal short, but while he locked the door he casually mentioned another pub he and his brother would be attending that evening. Dopheld eagerly joined them. There was no possibility of conversational intimacy with the odd figure of Declan hunched at the end of the table, but still, they were able to discuss some of the more pleasant aspects of Army life and Armitage seemed to appreciate Dopheld including his brother in the chatter. Other than the weekly gathering of other gas survivors it didn’t seem that the pair had many opportunities to be sociable.

It was slightly harder to keep a straight face the next few mornings when he arrived at the tailor’s door with more ‘accidentally’ acquired sweet treats, and by the fourth day he didn’t even bother to make an excuse. Hux just smiled whatever he said. 

The new trench kit should have been completed that day, but Armitage insisted there was a delay with a delivery and if Dopheld wished the stay and wait he was more than welcome. Dopheld lingered for eight hours, idly shuffling the papers on the desk while Armitage worked until he struck upon a system of proper organisation. He should have asked first but he was finding it increasingly hard not to stare at the other man and this would at least give him a proper distraction. 

The next thing he knew the street outside the windows was dark and Armitage was looking at the piles of papers strewn across his floor with a bemused expression.

“I can fix this.”

“I’m sure you can Lieutenant, but I have an important client coming in the morning.”

Dopheld glanced around himself, calculating. “It shouldn’t take much more than another four hours.” He said hopefully.

“Let me arrange for a neighbour to sit with my brother then, and I’ll fetch us some food.” 

It was oddly domestic and relaxing to sit side-by-side on the floor- their shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, bags of hot chips and pots of jellied eels at their sides- while they sorted through years of papers that had been neglected by Hux Sr and left unanswered after his death. 

Armitage made a joke about Dopheld becoming his secretary that was accompanied by such a hopeful look that Dopheld agreed on the spot. He tried to shake on the deal but Armitage refused to tie up his life after the war in such a way. 

They were both quiet then, wondering whether the war would ever end and what life might be like on the other side. If there was any life at all.

Together they completed the task just before midnight and Dopheld gratefully accepted the offer to sleep in the little cubby at the rear of the shop. Armitage had to return home to his brother but there was a bliss to be found in sleeping on a pillowcase that smelled so strongly of the man’s hair pomade. 

The next morning it was Armitage who brought the extra food, though again their breakfast was made short by the imminent arrival of his important client. It was some minor member of the royal family and Armitage hoped he could persuade the man to petition the war office on his behalf. 

Dopheld wished him luck and returned to his lodgings to begin his packing. Only two more sleeps before the ship sailed and he had to be certain his uniform was in order.

He had hoped to meet with Armitage again that evening but he found the shop closed up and he had no idea where the family home or even the factory were located. He wandered aimlessly, peering into pubs and music halls but he saw no sign of them and his anxiety would not allow him to ask strangers for directions. In the end he returned to his room early and tried to sleep.

* * *

A hammering at the door woke him at 5am, much to his irritation.

“What is it?” He asked peevishly, hunting for the dressing gown he had forgotten that he had already packed.

“Gentleman here with a message for you, Sir,” the maid called through the door. “He says the 14th battalion is to leave for Le Havre on this evening’s tide, Sir, not tomorrow. You’re to be at Kings Cross for 10am, Sir.”

Dopheld swore under his breath then immediately apologised to the baffled maid who hadn’t even heard his outburst. He’d thought he’d have one last day to spend with Armitage. Even if there was nothing to their meetings but platonic affection it had been pleasant to have a friend to pass the time with, and now he’d have to rush to say goodbye.

He packed with uncharacteristic haste, folding his clothes into their case without the customary second ironing and doing his best to leave space for the undoubtedly bulky trench kit. Assuming the set was ready at all. 

Armitage wasn’t at the shop when he arrived, leaving Dopheld to spend an anxious half an hour marching back and forth along the pavement wondering if he’d get to see him at all.

He was so worried in fact that he didn’t notice the tall redhead approaching until he ran straight into him.

“Dopheld!” Armitage gave his public grimace but his eyes lit up in genuine pleasure. “You’re early today, is everything…”

“I’m leaving at ten.” Dopheld said in a rush.

He felt terribly guilty at the sudden paling of the tailor’s already unhealthy skin, but he hadn’t a chance to apologise before the man had caught his arm and bodily dragged him up the steps to the shop. 

There was a moment’s pause while Armitage wrestled with the lock and then they were inside, his bag abandoned at their feet as Armitage pinned him to the back of the door and kissed him. 

He could have cried with relief. He probably  _ did _ . He didn’t care what he did so long as he was able to sink his fingers into soft red hair and melt against those lips. They were even softer and sweeter than he’d imagined.

It couldn’t last.

To highlight the point the clock on the mantle chimed nine.

They reluctantly parted.

“I’m sorry, I…” Armitage began.

“No you’re not.” Dopheld interrupted with a smile and another gentle kiss. “I’m not sorry and neither should you be.”

“Where are you going?”

“Le Havre, and then who knows where? I couldn’t tell you even if I did know. But I’ll try to write.”

Armitage stared at the floor, chewing on his lip. “Tell me the details for your battalion and I’ll do the same. I should admit- your kit was ready three days ago, I worked on it myself through the night but I realised that if I gave it to you, you might not come back again.”

“Oh I would have come back, but thank you for saving me the effort of thinking up an excuse.” Dopheld said with far more cheer than he was actually feeling. 

Together they repacked his bag, fingers lingering on one another as they struggled to accommodate the bulky gabardine kit. All except for the coat, which Armitage settled around his shoulders with a flourish. It fit perfectly, though the pockets seemed oddly heavy.

“Cigars- Declan says they're the best way to get on an officer’s good books, not that I think you'll need them; and chocolate, to keep your spirits up.” Armitage explained. He listed these things like any other standard feature of the clothing and kept his eyes on the stitching as he spoke, but a tremor in his accent gave away his distress.

Dopheld leaned forward on his tiptoes to press their foreheads together. “I promise I'll come back to you,” he said, sealing the vow with a gentle kiss. “I want to see where these kisses lead.” 

“Don't, don't make promises you can't keep.” Armitage sighed. 

“As long as there's an ounce of life in me, Armitage…”

“Stop. Please.” Half pulling Dopheld up by his lapels and half folding down to meet him, Armitage silenced him with a kiss that said far more than speech would have allowed.

* * *

Dopheld was half way across the Channel before he had a chance to properly explore the contents of his pockets in private. Given the nature of their relationship it hadn't seemed wise to look at the items in front of the other men, just in case. He needn't have worried, though perhaps the supplies might have inspired some jealousy.

A large tin of Fortnum & Mason hot cocoa took up one entire pocket while three more were stuffed with cigars. Declan had been very determined on that point it seemed. 

The left breast pocket, meanwhile, contained a tarnished silver cigarette case. There was an AH monogrammed on the front while inside, in bright shiny new letter was the inscription- ‘to my secretary, to guarantee his safe return, A Hux’. 

Dopheld smiled at the idea of Hux dashing about the city to turn the first thing he had at hand into a meaningful gift. Of course now he was honour bound to return it. And who hadn't heard the tales of men saved from death by a lucky metal gift from a sweetheart back home? What could be more perfect?

* * *

They wrote, often at first, then fitfully as Dopheld’s battalion progressed closer to the Front.

Supply lines were always a concern and more personal mail vanished than the Army might be willing to admit. But more than that Dopheld found safe topics hard to come by- it was hard to find anything that wouldn't fall foul of the censors, alert the authorities to his proclivities, or leave Armitage in a state of distress. 

What was there to talk about in war but horrors? Even before they had reached the fighting, he had seen men who had suffered the same fate as Declan, or worse, and by the time he witnessed the Front for himself all thoughts of false joviality left him. But he did his best, and he cherished the replies filled with business, domesticity, and tales of his ‘sweetheart’. 

That had been Armitage’s idea. The first time he made reference to her Dopheld had mistaken her for the tailor’s own love interest and had almost died of a broken heart on the spot. It was only on the second tear-blur reading that he realised the point of the ruse. The incongruously named Millicent was apparently Armitage’s sister, and sadly illiterate, so Armitage had taken on the duty of writing on her behalf. It was a wonderful idea and gave Dopheld at least the solace of being able to express his affections, even if it was under a false name.

In mid 1917, when he completed the paperwork to accept his promotion to Captain, he even gave her name as his next of kin. Armitage knew the name of his solicitors, but they did not know about him. If anything should happen to him he'd far rather Armitage found out first rather than running the risk of him never officially receiving the news at all.

He wrote to Armitage that evening to inform him of the changes but the lines of communication around Passchendaele were poor and getting worse. He never had the opportunity to write again.

* * *

The parcel went astray, as parcels often do when addressed to women who do not exist.

The battered box finally reached Armitage Hux by a confused route, languishing for a time in the factory mailroom before someone finally brought it to him in March of 1918. Under a coating of mud and dust it bore a postmark dated November of the previous year. It contained a dented cigar case, a pair of red and green identity discs bearing all of Dopheld’s details, and a single sheet of paper.

It was a form letter, not dissimilar to the one he’d received to inform him that Declan had been gravely wounded. Except this one stated that Captain Dopheld Mitaka had been reported missing at the end of November 1917. It went on to say that this did not necessarily mean he had been killed in action and the War Office would appreciate any letters they might receive confirming that he had been taken as a prisoner of war. 

The British government literally had a form letter confirming that the postal service from behind enemy lines was better than their own. That was the depths they had reached in this conflict. 

He stared at the objects in his hands, bile rising at the dark stains on the fabric identity discs. The cigarette case looked like it had been smashed in with a chisel. It was obvious what had happened. Why would they say he was missing but send his personal effects home? 

A foreman called up to him from the factory floor and the parcel was shoved into a desk drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. 

If Armitage tore his office apart in a fit of grief once the staff had left for the night, no one was any the wiser. The war raged on. The men needed to be dressed. His brother needed to be cared for and hundreds of other people depended on him for their livelihoods. He couldn’t afford the luxury of falling apart. No matter how much he might wish for it.

* * *

The old family shop had been a refuge once. A quiet space where he could think, free from chatter and machine noise. Now it was oppressive in its silence and dust.

Private commissions had fallen off as the effects of the war grew more pressing. There was talk of food rationing and no one wanted to appear austentatious in their clothing when their sons and neighbours were being called up to fight.

Before he’d received the package from France, Armitage had been in the habit of coming here to reread Dopheld’s letters and retrace their steps across the floor. But it was May. Six months since he’d disappeared. The Germans were at the door, the Front was in tatters and even Paris was under threat. 

Sitting here on the floorboards in the dust, it seemed like Dopheld had only been a dream of hope. A silly fiction his mind had created after the loss of his father and Declan’s faltering recovery.

The shop bell rang as the door opened. He could have sworn he’d bolted it.

“We’re closed.” He said quietly at the shuffling of feet and the hesitant tapping of a cane. “Probably forever.”

“That’s a shame, I was hoping you might be able to repair my coat. I’m afraid the Germans made quite a mess of it. Plus, I should like to give my regards to Millicent in person.”

Armitage had almost told the intruder to get out, and damn his coat, and damn the goddamn cat when he finally recognised the voice. It wasn’t his fault. Two long years had crawled by since last he heard it, and they  _ had _ only known one another for a week after all.

Dopheld was standing in the doorway- his Captain’s uniform neatly pressed, the tattered remains of a trench coat over one arm, and a walking stick in each hand. 

“Millicent is Declan’s cat.” Armitage said stupidly, as if explaining the source of his nom de plume was somehow more important than anything else. 

“Is she ginger?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Dopheld smiled. “It’s good to see you. I’m sorry I haven’t written, by the time I got the use of my hands back they already had me working in communications at the hospital so…”

“They told us you were missing. In November.” The words wouldn’t come out. A lump had formed in his throat and he couldn’t quite speak around it. “They sent your cigarette case. And your tags. There was blood on them. The case was smashed. When we didn’t…”

“My cigarette case? You have that? Can, can I see it?” Dopheld asked, shuffling awkwarding across the room.

“Were you very badly hurt?” Armitage replied from his position still sitting on the floor like a child. His gaze was fixed on Dopheld’s figure as if he could look beyond his clothing and see the damage for himself.

“You’ve heard of cigarette cases saving a man’s life by stopping a bullet? Well it doesn’t really work when there seven or eight bullets in quick succession. Though it probably did stop the one that would have hit my heart.” Dopheld explained. “I was robbed, while I lay there almost dead in the mud. Some nasty little deserter who was caught with my things. My commanding officer didn’t know I’d been rescued and marked me as missing until I woke up in the field hospital. I asked them to tell you.”

“It took four months for that package reach me, who know where the other letter is?” Armitage said a little bitterly.

“I don’t know. But I know where I am.” He said, carefully leaning his canes against the desk and holding out his hands to the man still sitting at his feet. “Now, Armitage Hux, Britain still at war, and I’m working at the war office now, so we have to be discrete, but we could die tomorrow, and I think I’ve waited long enough to find out where those kisses lead.”

Without pulling on Dopheld’s hands Armitage scrambled to his feet and caught Dopheld up in a hug that lifted him from the floor. 

Trembling fingers sank into his hair, warm lips met his own and, for the first time in forever, the war didn’t matter any more.


End file.
